Ready When You Are
by Lavender Pearl
Summary: Five years after 1918 and on the surface, Downton Abbey appears unchanged. But behind closed doors, the mighty ripples of the Great War have been felt deeply. How long can the new world be kept at bay when change is so intent on sweeping in?
1. Chapter 1

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. But below the surface, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. But how long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.  
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**Chapter One**

**X x X x X **

**11****th**** November, 1919 **

She had been in London that day. There had been something in the air, something besides the bitterness and overwhelming shock that everyone appeared to have assimilated into their everyday life. There seemed to be some sort of unspoken agreement between herself and every other person in England that day. Perhaps that was why, when the clock first struck for the 11th hour, it did not seem peculiar that the entire city fell into silence. Cars stopped in the street, buses came to a halt and people stood silently as Big Ben rang out its eleven heart-stopping chimes.

_One year since the guns fell silent._

Afterwards, everyone let out a breath they didn't realise they'd been holding and glanced at each other, nodding in a silent gesture of conciliation. For that moment they had been one, unified in their grief and paying a tearful homage to all who had fallen. One moment, and then each mortal had carried on, retreating into his or her own private heartbreak.

For a while she had stayed perfectly still on the pavement, watching the world try to carry on with pain in its heart and the instinctive knowledge that no matter how hard everybody tried, nothing would ever be the same.

Absentmindedly, she brought a hand to her throat the way she did when a sudden memory caught her by surprise, her fingers finding the delicate silver chain and checking it was still there. This simple act brought her back to the present, and the building in front of which she was standing. Feeling the freezing air nipping at her cheeks, finding its way up her sleeves and down the back of her collar, she realised that she must have been standing there for quite some time.

Taking the deepest of breaths, she steeled herself, ran up the steps and inside.

**X x X x X **

**1****st**** December, 1923**

This was Mr. Carson's favourite time of day, when the lull between clearing away the lunch things and ringing the dressing gong seemed to have truly settled in. Everyone went about their business, doing the small jobs that took little effort and allowed them to chat and move easily amongst one another. He could hear Mrs Patmore going over the dinner menu with Daisy, checking and double checking that she would have everything she needed for the meal that night. Outside, he heard the faint giggles of Anna and Millie as they struggled to fold vast bed-sheets between them. He was glad that Anna had taken so well to Gwen's replacement; indeed, he had been anxious that the departure of the young redheaded maid nearly ten years before (had it really been _ten years_?) would have been the signal for many of the others to leave permanently.

But instead, the majority of the staff had stayed put. Even those who had fought in France had, one by one, returned to their posts. The ones who had lived anyway. Carson felt a small ache in his chest when the image of William sprang into his mind. The boy had had such a goodness about him, such a purity. The day the news that he had been killed in action at Ypres reached them, it seemed as though they had all come to the silent agreement that a small piece of each of their hearts would remain forever broken.

Even Thomas, who had been such a chore before was quieter now, sobered by the horrors that he had seen. Carson suspected that his character was not completely reformed, but his years as a military medic seemed to have brought him a grudging compassion for his fellow man. No longer did he hide in corners with Miss O'Brien, smoking and scheming, or bullying the new footman, Edward. Carson was glad; he wasn't sure he had the energy for it anymore.

"Mr. Carson?" Bates paused at the door, leaning heavily on the frame. Carson nodded in invitation, gesturing for Bates to step inside the room "Yes?"

"Lady Sybil has asked me to confirm that everything is ready for the arrival of her guest this evening."

"Of course. You may tell Lady Sybil that Anna prepared the room herself this morning."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." Bates was turning to leave when a sudden thought struck him "Will Mr. Branson be collecting the young lady from the station? Mrs Patmore would like to know if she should keep dinner for him."

Carson shook his head "No, Mr. Branson's services will not be required tonight; he will be eating with us. Lady Sybil insists that her guest will be driving herself."

A look of wary understanding passed between them. Lady Sybil had returned from the Western Front even more enthusiastic about the creation of equal rights for women in society. She had taken up with a group of like-minded people and had blown back into Downton full of new ideas. Every few weeks she would make the pilgrimage to London to visit her new friends, much to Lord and Lady Crawley's chagrin. Recently, Sybil had become increasingly secretive about these visits, and Carson knew that Lady Crawley in particular had been keeping her ear close to the ground in order to detect the merest hint of any scandal that may have befallen her youngest. The young woman arriving tonight would be the first of several guests due to arrive over the next twenty-four hours. Lord and Lady Crawley were holding their annual Winter Ball, and Lady Sybil had begged the invitation of some of her new friends. Carson had heard Miss O'Brien say that the Countess had been working herself into somewhat of a lather, worrying about whether Lady Sybil's friends would behave themselves.

Not only this, but Lady Sybil's fondness for Branson seemed to have cooled and Carson couldn't pretend that he was not relieved. He knew not what had occurred between the pair to have created such a distance, but Carson suspected that Branson's sudden change of heart after the news of William had something to do with it. He had joined up the very next day, and upon hearing this Lady Sybil had stormed down the garage, only to leave a few moments later looking as though she was holding back tears. Branson had left for the Western Front a few days later, promising a tearful Mrs Hughes that he would write as often as he could. When Lady Sybil turned twenty-one a year later, she had requested immediately to be posted to France. Nobody knew if their paths had ever crossed amid the blood and shellfire, but their current relationship seemed much more befitting of a Lady and her driver.

Bates left and Carson heard his uneven gait steadily moving further up the corridor. A quick glance at the clock told him that he had run out of time to be lost in his thoughts. Drawing himself to his feet, he went to the window and gestured to Anna and Millie to come inside. The sheets would have to wait – for now, there was a table that needed laying.

**X x X x X**

The rain had started as she had driven into Yorkshire, suddenly and without warning. It hammered down on the cloth roof and she sighed at the terrific bad luck of it all, slowing down to navigate the winding country lanes. She had driven through the village a small while ago and in the rapidly fading light it had seemed a pleasant, provincial sort of place. The winter night had closed in all around, making driving doubly difficult. Perhaps insisting that she drive alone from London to a part of the country she had never ventured to before had been a mistake. The only minor advantage was that she was not tardy; she had promised Sybil that she would arrive by seven at the latest and a quick squint at her watch told her it was only half past five.

It was pouring now, the muddy water making its way down the verges on either side of the road. Straining to see into the night, she suddenly became painfully aware that she wasn't even certain where the road ended and the grass began. A sudden knot of anxiety developed in her stomach, twisting and rolling. This was just like –

_No, don't think about that now. There isn't time._

A loud bang (imagined or real?) sounded to her left and she instinctively jerked the wheel and swerved away. The car struggled to regain purchase on the slick track. She braked hard but it was little use; the wheels spun and slid back and forth manically before screeching to a halt.

She sat in silence for a moment, hardly daring to move. There was nothing but blackness all around, and the sound of the rain bucketing down on the car. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter around herself. The car was at a peculiar angle and she felt herself sliding to the left slightly. Taking a deep and shuddering breath, she fumbled around to try and restart the engine. Sending a silent prayer heavenwards, she turned the key in the ignition.

And nothing happened.

Cursing inwardly, she tried again but with little success. On the verge of tears and suddenly very claustrophobic, she scrambled to the passenger side and clambered out into the rain.

The sensory assault she suffered once outside caught her by surprise. In the pitch black, up to her ankles in mud with the rain hammering down on to her head, she suddenly felt transported, spirited away to night just like this. A hundred nights just like this, maybe more. The dark landscape before her could just as easily be the broken and weeping earth of the western front. If she listened hard, she could hear the shrieking of the shells, the bellows and cries of the men running back and forth through the trenches, the sounds of the wind whipping her hair, seemingly creeping into the muscles of her face and making them ache...

_Stop it. You're scaring yourself. _

From what she could make out, the car was firmly lodged in a hedgerow, the thick branches void of their leaves rising high about her head and looking like fingers reaching into the turgid black night. There would be no moving it tonight. Seeing no other alternative, she turned and began to trudge in the direction she had originally been going. By now the rain had soaked through her clothes to her skin. She had been walking no more than a few minutes when she spotted lights about a mile in the distance. Her heart gave a sudden jump. That _had _to be the house - there was nothing else for miles around. Filled with a new determination she began to stride towards the lights, allowing herself to think of nothing but the warmth and comfort that awaited her there.

**X x X x X**

Would love to know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. Below the surface however, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. But how long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.**

**Chapter Two**

Sybil stared out into the pitch black night, wringing her hands anxiously. The wind and rain buffeted against the window. Sat behind her in stony silence, Mary and Edith were enduring the aftermath of their latest quarrel. Since reaching the fourth month of her pregnancy, Mary had becoming prickly and argumentative and despite her mother's unsubtle hints that the process of having a child should be a time that made a woman more beautiful, the future Countess of Grantham had become a slave to her hormones. Matthew incidentally, was the only one suffering this transformation with the grace and patience of a saint. His affection for his wife never wavered, even when Mary was at her most unreasonable, and for this Sybil wished to shake his hand.

Edith, on the other hand, was a different matter. She and Mary had never seen eye to eye, but the combination of Edith losing the affections of her only suitor due to Mary's vengeful streak (not to mention the fact that Sir Antony had then been killed at Paschendaele), and Mary's newly developed intolerance of absolutely everything had created levels of tension no one had previously thought possible.

"Sybil darling, come away from the window." Her mother beckoned to her from the armchair "Are you sure you told your friend to arrive tonight and not tomorrow along with the rest of the guests?"

"Yes Mama I'm sure," Sybil sighed and turned to face into the room "Besides, she's not late yet. I'm just anxious because the weather has turned and she may be lost."

"Dearest, tell us again how you met this friend of yours?" Cora tried to look subtle; as though she was not attempting to prepare herself for the radical that may at any moment appear on her doorstep. So far, Sybil had been guarded in sharing information about her new friends, but Cora had guessed correctly that her daughter's mind would be more focussed on the safe arrival of her friend than on deciding what her mother should and shouldn't know.

Sybil gave a last glance out of the window over her shoulder and moved to sit in the chair opposite her mother "We were in France together." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Edith stiffen and felt guilty. It seemed that over the years since the war, everyone had come up with ways of saying they had been there without actually mentioning the fighting, but Sybil knew that Edith in particular could not bear any mention of it without becoming upset. She sent a look of apology toward her sister, who nodded in acceptance, but still stood and moved away, suddenly becoming very interested in the corner of a painting on the far side of the room. Mary rolled her eyes but said nothing, gesturing for Sybil to continue.

"She worked with the FANY, driving ambulances to and from the front, collecting soldiers and bringing them to the field hospitals. She helped develop a system where they would put tags on the soldiers so when the nurses got to them, we would know what needed to be taken care of. We became friends, and between us managed to devise a shorthand to make things more efficient."

"That's very nice dear, and what does she do now?"

"Well, she originally was going to stay in France after the armistice, but the next time I heard from her she was in London."

"How... lovely." Cora looked strained "What did you say her name was again?"

"My Lord and Ladies, there is a young lady named Clara Payne in the foyer. I believe she is the guest Lady Sybil has been waiting for?" Carson had, as usual, appeared without a sound.

"Thank you Carson, we will greet her directly." Sybil was already out of her chair and following Carson through the door. Cora frowned at her husband and remaining daughters.

"Did you hear a car?"

** X**

"Clara, what happened to you? Are you hurt?" the sight that greeted Sybil in the foyer was far beyond what she had expected. Her friend stood, shivering and self-conscious, in a puddle of muddy water. Her hair was plastered to her head with the rain, and there were flecks of mud on her face, hands and legs.

Clara smiled "No, I'm not hurt. I wanted to stand in the porch, but your butler insisted."

"Of course, I wouldn't hear of you standing out in the rain! But I thought you were going to drive here?"

"Good lord, are you alright?" Lord Crawley had appeared with his wife, eldest daughters and Matthew in tow. Sybil moved to stand beside Clara "Papa, Mama, may I present my very dear friend Miss Clara Payne."

There was a small, very awkward pause while the majority of the Crawley family attempted to ascertain the appropriate facial expression for the situation. Clara made a tiny step forward "Thank you so much for inviting me into your home." She smiled winningly, taking a chance "I was always taught that a houseguest should never turn up without a gift for the hosts, so I brought plenty of water."

It was Mary who laughed first, breaking the tension, and the mood shifted to something altogether more pleasant. After the customary introductions, Lady Crawley stepped forward "You must be frozen. Carson, could you arrange to have a bath drawn and some clean clothes delivered to Miss Payne's room as soon as possible?"

"Already taken care of m'lady. Mrs Hughes is overseeing things personally. If Miss Payne would like to accompany me upstairs..."

"I'll come with you and see to it that you're settled in. Papa, may I be excused?" Sybil was already halfway up the stairs.

"Of course dearest. I'm sure Carson will arrange for you both to eat later on."

"Thank you, Lord Crawley." Clara gave a last smile before following Sybil and Carson upstairs.

** X**

"Clara, you still haven't told me what happened. Where your car? You must have had to walk for miles!" Sybil sat on the bed, talking to Clara as she languished in the hot water. Clara paused in soaking the mud from under her fingernails.

"Only a mile or so, really. The car came off the road and I couldn't restart her. I was wondering if perhaps your family had a driver who could assist me in retrieving her from the hedgerow where I had to leave her?"

"Oh- yes, of course. I'm sure Branson will be happy to help you." Sybil fiddled with the edge of the comforter and was silent. She heard Clara climb out of the bath and moments later emerge in the robe Mrs Hughes had found for her.

"So, how long are you going to wait for me to tell you what you're waiting to hear?" Clara eyed Sybil with a playful knowingness. Sybil shrugged but fixed her friend with a mischievous smile "Did he-?"

"There's a letter for you from him in my coat pocket. Apparently he simply couldn't wait until tomorrow... What's the matter?" Sybil's face had suddenly grown pale and she looked aghast.

"Mrs Hughes took your coat downstairs along with your other clothes to wash and dry them! If she finds it, then everyone will know! What are we going to do?"

"Alright," Clara bit her lip, "It appears there is really only one thing _to_ do. Can we get down to the servant's quarters without anyone seeing?"

Sybil shook her head "We could go through the servant's passages, but there's no guarantee that we won't be seen. Oh, what bad luck!" She wrapped her arms around herself "If mama and papa find out I will be in such trouble!"

"Look, don't worry. What if I go alone? No one will think it too peculiar as I've never been here before. If anyone sees me I could pretend to be lost. Do you think it would work?"

"Oh Clara, would you?" Sybil looked as though she might cry with relief. She glanced at the clock "You'd better go now – everyone will still be at dinner so the servants will be preoccupied with that. If you go to the foyer and find the door to the left of the staircase, it should take you straight down to the kitchens. The laundry room is next to Carson's office – he won't be there so you shouldn't be seen. I'll wait here for you. Thank you so much Clara, this means so much..."

"Don't thank me just yet – I may still get caught." And with that Clara slipped out of the bedroom and along the corridor.

** X**

**Hope you like! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. Below the surface however, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. But how long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.**

**Chapter Three**

**X x X x X**

Tom Branson couldn't breathe. He placed his hands palms down on the table in front of him and tried to concentrate on the feeling of the cool oak surface, the rivets and dimples against his sweating palms. Anything to distract him from the panicked cry rising in his throat. Anything.

These awful moments always took him by surprise, where he could feel the mud caked to his skin and hear the bellows and shouts of men; the whistles and shrieks of shells. He shivered and took a deep breath. He was dressed in the clothes he kept for working on the car. The material of the shirt felt peculiar against his skin and the slightest movement of it made his stomach turn. His heart was hammering away in his chest and he could feel tears in his eyes.

It had probably been the rain that had set him off. Things that had seemed normal before now terrified him – the rain, for example. As a child, the sound of raindrops on his windowpane had soothed him, lulling him to sleep. Now, the first drop hitting the ground caused the iron fist that hovered constantly at his shoulder to clamp down. The fist was always there, a constant reminder that he had betrayed his values, a reminder of the things he'd seen, a reminder that he would never be free of that damn war as long as he lived.

Mrs Hughes had bustled in a while ago carrying a pile of soaking wet and muddy clothes. She had left the bundle in the laundry room for Anna to take care of in the morning and with a curt nod to Tom, had disappeared upstairs once more. Apart from this brief interlude, he had been alone for the best part of the last hour.

Tom's head began to feel fuzzy and he leant forward to rest it against the table, trying to anchor himself to something. His legs felt like dead weights; separate to the rest of him. He sucked air in through his nostrils and fought the urge to duck at imagined gunfire.

"Are you alright?"

The young blond man slumped on the table in front of Clara sat bolt upright, wide green eyes darting around wildly. Clara watched him from the doorway, concerned. She had been standing there for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. A small part of her had said that she could probably have slipped by unnoticed but the sight of heaving, shuddering shoulders and clammy, sweaty skin had struck her as an all too familiar sight. The man at the table stared at her and suddenly she felt exposed. Unconsciously she reached a hand up to tug at the robe, holding it closed at the neck.

"M-May I help you?" He spoke as if trying to catch his breath. A dark blush was creeping up his neck and he looked mortified "Guests don't usually know where to find us." He stood, and Clara noticed his hands were shaking. He saw her looking and quickly put them behind his back "Was there something you needed, m'lady?"

Clara paused, contemplating whether to ask once again if he was alright. There was a certain pleading in his expression coupled with the humiliation at being caught in what was clearly a private and unhappy moment. He was boyishly handsome; tall and well built with strong shoulders and arms. His face was naturally designed to be open and cheerful, but like so many young men whose acquaintance she had made over recent years, his mouth had not smiled in a long while and his eyes had seen too much. Deciding to spare him his pride, Clara smiled at him self-deprecatingly "Lady Sybil told me that your housekeeper would bring my clothes down here to be washed. I left... something in my coat pocket and wished to retrieve it."

The man before her seemed to have collected himself somewhat and although his eyes still retained the vacant gaze of someone looking but not seeing, he nodded "Of course, m'lady. If you would like to follow me..." his Irish brogue had no edge to it; it was pure, almost musical. He gestured for Clara to follow her and she did, her bare feet procuring a slight chill from the bare stone floor.

Branson led her into the laundry room and located her coat, which Mrs Hughes had stretched along a drying rack. Clara breathed a sigh of relief and reaching into the pocket, pulled out a slightly damp envelope. She paused and smiled a little sadly at the coat itself, gently touching the mud encrusted fabric "Awful isn't it, how it sticks like that? It ruins everything." She looked at Branson and he knew she wasn't just talking about the coat. He felt a dull ache deep in his chest and looked down at his feet.

Clara knew he had understood and gave his arm a brief but sympathetic squeeze "Thank you for your help." She was turning to leave when a sudden thought struck her "One more thing... Can I trust that you won't mention this to anyone? I would hate for Lord and Lady Grantham to think that I'm the sort of houseguest who repays their hospitality by roaming around under-dressed late at night."

Branson felt his lips form an involuntary smile "Of course not. Your secret's safe with me, m'lady."

She smiled back at him warmly before sweeping out of the door. Branson heard the light slap of her bare feet as she crossed the kitchen floor.

_She must be one of Lady Sybil's guests. No one else would dream of sneaking down to the kitchens._

Branson glanced at the young woman's coat and dress. Instinctively, he reached out and lightly brushed his fingers in the same spot she had touched just moments before.

_Awful isn't it, how it sticks like that? It ruins everything._

"Yes... awful." Branson murmured to himself.

**X x X x X**

Clara breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped back into her bedroom. Sybil was perched on the edge of the bed, but she sprang to her feet as Clara closed the door behind her "Clara! I was so worried that you'd gotten lost down there – or worse, been caught by Carson!" her brows knitted together in anxiety "Did you -?"

Clara smiled, producing the envelope from behind her back "Have I ever let you down before?"

"Not once." Beaming, Sybil rushed forward to embrace her friend "Oh Clara, you _are_ clever!" she held the now slightly battered envelope in her hands, running a loving finger over the handwriting. She looked a Clara fondly "Now we can stop fretting over this and catch up properly. I have missed you so, Clara dear. I find that I can only go so long in the countryside without feeling deprived of your company. Come and sit, and tell me everything that has happened to you since we last saw each other."

"Oh Sybil, I would like to so very much but..." Clara's words trailed off as a yawn took over "I'm sorry..." She managed, suddenly so overtaken with fatigue she feared she may doze off where she stood. She yawned again, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth.

Sybil clapped a hand over her own lips "My dear, it should be me who is sorry! You must be exhausted after the evening you've had. Shall I leave you to sleep? We can take tea alone tomorrow before the other guests arrive and catch up then."

Clara felt a surge of affection for her friend and smiled "I think that sounds like just the thing. I'll come and find you after I've retrieved my car from the clutches of the countryside."

They hugged once more, this belated greeting having been delayed first by Clara's mud-soaked form and then the impromptu trip to the bowels of the house "It really is so wonderful to have you here. Sleep well." With a last smile of affection, Sybil slipped from the room and Clara was alone.

Once in bed, Clara took the opportunity to study the guest bedroom she had been given before extinguishing the lamp. It was decorated warmly, with a plush carpet and heavy burgundy curtains. The bed was a gigantic four poster, complete with velvet drapes and silk bedding. The furniture was simple yet elegant – the sort of thing her own mother would have chosen for a guest suite.

Clara felt a twinge of anxiety as she thought of home. Her father had insisted that he would be fine without her for a few days, but Clara had secretly arranged for a few people he knew well to 'drop in' from time to time to make sure he hadn't forgotten to eat altogether. He was getting so thin these days...

Feeling her eyelids droop uncontrollably, Clara reached for the lamp and blew it out, plunging the room into darkness. She had heard tales of those who had been in France refusing to sleep without a light of some sort to chase away any lingering memories of the front. For some, the dark held monsters they had no wish to confront. Sybil had confessed in her letters that upon arriving home after the war, she had woken screaming in the wee hours on several occasions. Clara herself had suffered (who hadn't?), haunted by those she had not been able to save. Now however, she preferred the dark to sleep in, to crawl into and hide away until the next day had to be dealt with.

_It must be even worse for the soldiers._

Clara's mind drifted to the young man who had assisted her that evening, and his private attempt at exorcising demons that the war had left behind that she had inadvertently stumbled upon. She remembered one soldier recuperating in a field hospital after losing his legs, saying to her that anyone who had seen action would be better off dead – that there was no possible way any of them would ever be able to return to the life they had lived before the war. Maybe he had been right. Clara thought suddenly of Raymond, the way he would laugh and joke about the war, shrugging it off as though it were all a jolly game. Until that day...

As she lay there in the vast and luxurious bed slipping into a dreamless and heavy sleep, Clara recalled the last time she had felt so fatigued, so utterly wrung out. Of course, there had been no heavenly hot baths or comfortable beds to crawl into then. Just mud and dirt, and the feeling that no matter how hard one tried one would never be rid of the screams and cries of dying young men ringing in one's ears.

**X x X x X**

**Sorry this one took me a bit longer, I was struggling to get it started! Hope you like and thanks for all the lovely reviews I've had so far!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. Below the surface however, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. But how long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.**

**Chapter Four**

** X**

"Sybil, how could you?" Cora looked despairingly at her youngest daughter over the breakfast table. Ordinarily she took her morning meal in bed, but had taken the opportunity to come downstairs and scold Sybil before her guest awoke and joined them.

"How could I what, mama?" Sybil sipped her tea and looked innocently at her mother. The Countess sighed and lifted a piece of toast to her lips "You know very well what. How could you neglect to tell us that your guest was Clara Payne?" upon seeing her husband's blank look she explained "Clara Payne is the daughter of _Lord _Payne, the Viscount of Hertfordshire."

"Ah." Lord Crawley rubbed his chin, suddenly understanding his wife's anxiety "Right. Well that does rather... yes."

"The Viscount of Hertfordshire... wasn't his son Raymond awarded the Victoria Cross?" Edith asked, frowning as the rest of the table fell silent "What? What's the matter?"

"Raymond Payne _was_ awarded the Victoria Cross, yes dear." Cora seemed to be struggling with what to say next "But a few months after he arrived home from France he... took his own life."

"Not only that," Lord Crawley lowered his voice as though he was afraid that Clara may appear at any moment "But Lady Payne was so grief-stricken that she died soon after. Lord Payne used to be a prominent member of government, but the death of his wife and son drove him to drink and he hasn't been seen in public for years."

"I just wish you had _said_ something, Sybil. I had no idea that you had ever made the poor girl's acquaintance." Cora dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and looked to her daughter for some sort of explanation.

"I'm sorry mama. I honestly didn't think it would matter. It's not as though they're social pariahs, is it? Clara has been a wonderful friend to me."

"I don't doubt it dear, but a little_ warning_ would have been nice..." Cora lowered her voice as they heard footsteps coming along the corridor outside the morning room. The door opened and Clara appeared, minus the mud and mortified expression.

"Miss Payne, good morning." Lady Grantham smiled brightly at her daughter's guest "Please, sit down and Edward will fix you a plate. I trust you slept well?"

"Very well thank you, Lady Grantham," Clara smiled at the rest of the breakfast party before seating herself next to Sybil "May I take this opportunity to apologise for bursting in on you all last night in such an undignified and... messy way."

"Oh think nothing of it Miss Payne," the Countess motioned to a baby-faced footman to beginning filling a plate "We were all just relieved that you didn't injure yourself walking so far in the dark!"

Clara smiled politely, erring on the side of caution and assuming that any comment about being able to negotiate a dark and mud-filled landscape with her eyes closed would not be well received. She knew that Lord Grantham had been at the front for a time, and Sybil had mentioned a gentleman that one of her sisters had been fond of being killed in France. She issued a small expression of gratefulness to the footman who had placed a plate laden with kedgeree in front of her, and the delicious smell made her stomach growl.

Breakfast passed with little conversation after that. Clara kept her eyes on her plate, directing her attention mainly towards ignoring the vague awkwardness that seemed to hang about those seated at the table. It was not overbearing – a trifle unpleasant perhaps, but she had grown used to it. Clara had never been able to decipher whether the tension was one that seemed to decorate all rooms since 1918, or simply just the ones that she inhabited. Clara was not ignorant to the hushed tones in which she was discussed when absent from polite company, but for some reason it didn't bother her as much as it might have before the war.

Sybil finished eating and excused herself, and suggesting to Clara that they meet for coffee in the blue parlour on the west side of the house once she had returned from rescuing her car. Sybil departed with a meaningful glance toward her friend and Clara nodded, sending Sybil a discreet smile to show she understood.

"Miss Payne, I hope you don't intend to try and move your car alone? Why, I insist that you take Branson to assist you. He can drive you – Carson, please tell Branson to bring the car around-"

"Oh please," Clara interrupted "Your offer is_ most_ kind, and I will take the man if I may, but I believe it will probably be easier if we walk out to the car. You see," she cast her gaze downwards, a slight blush coming to her cheeks "The countryside is simply knee-deep in mud, and I must admit I can't remember exactly _where_ I left her... it was rather dark and there's a very good chance that I wasn't able to stick to the road." She smiled embarrassedly "I would hate to run your poor man into a ditch as well."

Lady Grantham smiled back at her "I understand. Would you like me to send for Branson now?"

"If you don't mind, I thought I'd find him myself and explain the situation, perhaps see if he had any ideas before we set out?" Clara allowed her plate to be removed from in front of her and began to stand.

"Gosh," Said one of Sybil's sisters (unmarried Clara noticed – this must be Edith) with a smile that Clara thought contained just a hint of mockery "You _are_ a modern girl." Clara simply smiled beatifically but said nothing. She assumed that Sybil had told the Crawleys about her entrance into the police force, and suspected that Edith, along with the rest of the family (although not quite so candidly) felt that Sybil's acquaintance with herself and the others was rather an unsavoury move "Where might I find the garage?"

** X**

The rain had continued throughout the night, finally stopping just before dawn and allowing the winter sunshine to claim the land from a sky of watery blue. Branson had nearly broken into a run as he made his daily pilgrimage from the servant's quarters to the garage, the chill in the air hurting his lungs and stinging his tired eyes.

Sleep hadn't come easily the night before, but it never did after one of his... turns. He had tried to read, written a letter home to his mother and sisters, lain in bed and stared at the ceiling, all the while aware of his heart hammering away in his chest, the anxious sweat forming on his brow. Eventually he had dropped off, but the quality of his sleep had been poor and today he was feeling the effects. Fortunately, he had already performed most of the large tasks required to prepare the car for ferrying guests about later on that day, and now all that remained was to polish the hubcaps and check the oil. Once this was out of the way however, he could hide himself away in some dark corner of the garage with some minor task that required little thought. It would undoubtedly be very cold, but at that moment Branson would cheerfully have taken a cold but silent garage over a warm but chaotic kitchen. Mrs Patmore had risen before even the maids that morning and was well on her way to creating the exquisite feast for the ball that evening by the time everyone else awoke. Upon Branson's arrival in the kitchen, he was hastily slipped a few pieces of toast by Anna who discreetly informed him that as Mrs Patmore had already made Daisy and Millie cry that morning, it may be better for him to make himself scarce. Thus, he had donned his leather driving gloves and his winter coat despite knowing that he wouldn't be called upon to drive until later on that day, and retreated to the place he felt safest.

Unlocking the garage and wondering idly if he could get away with starting a small fire, Branson's mind drifted to the guest who had snuck down to the kitchens the night before. Either she was very naive to the social rules of propriety that the upper classes seemed so concerned about, or she shunned them deliberately. He had subtly cast a glance into the laundry room on his way past to see if the mud stained garments were still there, but it appeared that Mrs Hughes had had them laundered and delivered back to the young lady in time for breakfast.

_Awful isn't it, how it sticks like that? It ruins everything._

The look she had given him had been brief, but in it he saw that he would not be able to pass off what she had seen as anything other than the manifestation of the horrific things he had witnessed. The expression in her eyes was familiar. It was thoughtful and calm, but under no misapprehension that what she was seeing before her was easily pushed aside. He had seen that expression in other eyes, eyes that had hovered above him as shellfire rained down all around.

So _that_ was how Lady Sybil knew her then.

Lady Sybil. Branson barely saw her nowadays. To be truthful, their fondness for one another (could it have been called a friendship?) had unravelled long ago on that fateful day. At first, Branson had felt guilty for upsetting her so, but eventually the pragmatist in him had rationalised that it was for the best. He could not deny that he had once harboured a certain attachment to the headstrong and idealistic young woman, but it would have been foolish for him to think that it could have ended any other way. Sighing, Branson found a cloth and began the fiddly task of polishing the headlights and hubcaps. The car was a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost – the newest model purchased by Lord Grantham earlier that year upon Branson's advice. Despite sales for it falling since the war, the model remained reliable and easy to maintain mechanically, especially since electric lighting had been made standard.

He had barely been at it half an hour when he heard a knock at the garage door. Expecting it to be Mr. Bates or one of the footmen, his breath caught in his throat and he almost choked when he turned to find the young woman from the night before standing there, shivering in the winter air. She frowned as though trying to remember where she had seen him before. Branson felt himself begin to blush. This must have jogged her memory because she smiled sweetly "Oh it's you – good morning."

"Good morning m'lady." Branson noticed that he had been right and her clothes must have been returned to her sometime that morning. Dressed in garments that were her own, he could see now that she was petite, with a figure that did not conform to modern standards of fashion- she was slender yet curvaceous instead of the boyish, waif-like figures that women aspired to nowadays. Curiously, she wore trousers and a silk blouse with a thin pearl necklace. Her dark hair, set in an elegant wave and cut to end just below her chin, framed a delicate face with large blue eyes and full mouth upon which played a gentle smile.

"I'm sorry to disturb you – you are Mr. Branson aren't you?" she took a few steps into the garage and held out her hand for him to shake "I didn't introduce myself last night. My name is Clara Payne."

Branson stared at her outstretched hand, dumbfounded for a moment. After an awkward pause, he tentatively reached out and took it "Y-you have the right man. Can I be of service, m'lady?"

"I certainly hope so." Clara smiled warmly at him and gripped his hand firmly. Too late Branson realised that his hands were grubby from fiddling with the hubcaps. If this fazed Clara then she didn't show it. Glancing at her hand and spotting the rag he had discarded on the car's bonnet, she slipped past him, picked it up and proceeded to wipe her hands with it, all the while admiring the car "What a magnificent machine. How long have you been taking care of her?" she handed Branson the rag and he fumbled with it, suddenly disarmed "Lord Grantham purchased it back in March. I'm sorry m'lady – what was it you needed my help with?"

"Ah yes," Clara turned to face him "I'm not sure if you will have heard about the rather... dramatic way I turned up last night?"

Branson frowned "I'm afraid not m'lady."

She smiled embarrassedly "Well the long and the short of it is, I ran my car off the road in the dreadful weather last night and simply couldn't start her again. That's why I arrived looking rather less than presentable. I was wondering if you might spare an hour or two in helping me to retrieve her?"

The request – or rather, the genuine and sort of sweet way that she had conveyed it – took him aback a little and for a moment he found himself unable to formulate a response. The hopeful expression began to disappear from Clara's face "Of course, I know you're probably going to be frightfully busy today, and I wouldn't want to cause havoc-"

"It would be no bother m'lady," Branson said quickly, angry for forgetting himself "Would you like me to drive you? I'm sure I can help you get her started again. Will she need to be towed do you think?" Branson began to look around for a rope.

"Actually, I think it might be better if we walk it. In all honesty," Clara clasped her hands together. It was her turn to blush "I'm not _entirely_ sure where I left her."

**Would love some feedback! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. Below the surface however, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. But how long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.**

**ScarletAngelww: Thank you so much for your feedback, I really appreciate it. I've already made the changes you suggested to chapter 3 and I was thinking I might add a little bit onto the part you were saying about with Lord Grantham in Chapter 4? I definitely wanted him saying it, I guess I just needed to be a bit clearer about why he's telling Edith – I sort of wanted him to sound like he's prepping his children for the subjects he wants them to avoid. I thought I could add a little statement or something just to make it clear - let me know what you think.  
>Oh and the last thing – I had a couple of reasons for Clara not wanting to take the car, the main one sort of being that Clara doesn't really know where the car is – as far as she's concerned, it was dark and raining and she could have been driving through fields for all we know, as well as the fact that she was panicking at the time (Which I doubt she wants to admit ). I also wanted to expand on the idea that Clara is, as Edith snarkily puts it 'A modern girl'. Also, it gave Edith the opportunity to snipe. <strong>

**Chapter Five**

**X x X x X**

"Are you _sure_ you wouldn't like me to drive, m'lady?" Branson and Clara stood at front gates, their breath rising before them in frosted arcs and plumes. At their feet lay an assault course consisting mainly of large puddles, twigs and foliage.

"Oh nonsense, I wouldn't dream of getting your car all muddy – you've put so much effort into getting her cleaned up. Besides, as I explained, _my_ car could be stranded in the middle of a field for all I know, the poor old thing," she paused "Thank you, by the way. I realise this sounds like a bit of a fool's errand. It's very nice of you to give up your time on what will very probably turn into a very dirty job." Clara smiled brightly and for reasons he could not fathom, Branson found himself smiling back. Besides the string of pearls she wore about her neck, he now also noticed a very fine silver chain sitting below them, almost completely hidden beneath the collar of her blouse. Realising he was staring and hoping that she wouldn't think he was leering at her, he quickly turned back to the task at hand. He looked left and right, surveying the stretch of road that ran past the entrance to the estate "Which direction would you like to go, m'lady?"

Clara shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight and turned away from Branson so he couldn't see that she had closed her eyes in order to get her bearings. The night before, by sheer chance, she had reached the main entrance to Downton before stumbling upon any other door and as she approached the house it had been to her left, so-

"-Right," Clara spun to face Branson, a triumphant gleam in her eyes "We need to go right." And without waiting for a reply, she began to pick her way over the smaller pieces of foliage that had been plucked from their homes. Branson watched her with a mixture of amusement and disbelief before following the trail that she had set, his earlier fatigue somewhat abated by the freshness of the cold air and the change to the routine he had fallen into so easily. He had hoped that creating new habits might force some of the ones he had formed during the war into submission, but it became apparent almost immediately that those behaviours would not be silenced so easily. Instead they served as everlasting reminders of the way he had been forced to see the world – a way bordered by blood and barbed wire.

It had been with a sinking heart that he realised his first walk in the countryside upon returning home was not to be the freeing and jubilant experience he had expected. Instead, he had felt exposed and vulnerable. His training forced him to constantly be on the lookout for shelter from machine gunfire, and the sudden fluttering of a wood pigeon's wings or a squirrel scrabbling up a tree sent his heart racing. It would get better with time, he had promised himself.

And in a way, it had. Branson had found that returning to Downton had soothed his soul somewhat. The nightmares and hallucinations had eased and while he suspected he would never completely be free of them, he knew that he had come to an uneasy stalemate with the savage beast that stalked within his mind, the iron fist that forever hovered above his shoulder. He felt safe here.

Clara had somehow managed to get a reasonable way in front of him, but now she stopped and waited for him to catch up. Her silhouette was statuesque and elegant against the morning sunlight, but incongruous with the surroundings. She appeared to be thinking "M'lady?' Branson ventured quietly and she stirred from her thoughts. She gestured to the grass verge at the side of the road "Do you see that groove in the mud there?" Branson said that he did "I think that was me." Her gaze wandered to the tree at the top of the verge "I held on to the tree with this hand," she held out her right arm "And tried to lower myself onto the road, but I couldn't see anything and I slipped and made that groove in the mud. _Which means_," she appeared to be sizing up the verge "That's the way we need to go. What do you think?"

Branson stood back to assess the verge for himself "I think," he said finally "That I can make it."

"What does that mean?" Clara's voice took on a sudden, almost imperceptible edge. Branson looked at her "It means that I could probably climb up there and then pull you up if you can get a foothold on say, that." He motioned to a knot of tree roots emerging from the verge.

Clara's posture relaxed and she nodded her agreement "Let's try it."

Branson scrambled to the top of the verge and steadied himself against the tree. Turning to stare down at Clara, he could see how she slipped. The angle of the slope coupled with the rain and Clara's petite limbs just didn't add up. Anchoring himself to the tree with one hand, he reached down for hers with the other "M'lady?"

Clara took Branson's hand without hesitation. It was calloused from working on the car, she guessed, but warm with a strong grip. Taking a deep breath she placed her foot on the tree root as he had suggested and hauled herself up to stand alongside him.

"Well done, m'lady." They turned and began to walk unsteadily across the muddy landscape.

"Call me Clara."

Branson felt his stomach jolt at the sudden and unorthodox request "I couldn't possibly m'lady. It wouldn't be..." he scrabbled around for the word.

Clara gazed at him with a level expression as they walked "Wouldn't be what?"

"...Proper."

Clara had no answer to that. After all, he was right - it _wasn't_ proper. They carried on in awkward silence for a moment before she broke it "I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable." by way of an explanation she offered "It's just... I rather got to like being 'just Clara' during the war."

So she _had_ been in France with Lady Sybil "It wasn't that m'lady... I just wasn't expecting it. Of course I can address you however you wish... Clara." The name sounded peculiar rolling off his tongue and Clara smiled gratefully at him "Thank you Mr. Branson," a thought suddenly struck her "Do you have a first name that I might risk calling you by? If you don't mind, of course."

Branson smiled in spite of himself "It's Tom, m'lad – I mean Clara."

"Tom." His name appeared to satisfy her as she said it aloud. They smiled shyly at one another before carrying on. By the time they reached a tall hedgerow that Branson identified as running down a slope and at right angles to the road about two acres to their right, the vague awkwardness between them seemed to have melted away, and conversation flowed easily.

Clara gestured to the hedgerow before them "Perhaps this is what I ran the car into – do you think we'll find it if we follow the hedge?"

Branson shrugged "I'd say your guess is as good as any." Once again they fell into step beside one another "How long have you worked for Lord and Lady Grantham?"

"I became the family's driver in 1913. After the war, Lord Grantham gave me my old job back and I've been here ever since."

"When did you sign up?"

"May 1915."

"After Ypres?"

"During."

"That's quite late to sign up." Clara observed "What made you change your mind?"

"It was more a change of heart." He said quietly, casting a baleful glance over the landscape around them as they trudged along. Clara could think of nothing to say to this, and so instead chose to offer her own experience, to show that she was not some simple minded socialite with no experience of battle condescending to an ex-soldier.

"I went to France in March 1917 with the FANY. Just before the Battle of Scarpe. That was where I met Sybil. She really is the most marvellous nurse you know... Look!" Clara grabbed Branson's arm and pointed toward where the hedgerow nearly met with the road "Can you see?"

About twenty yards in front of them at the bottom of the slope and protruding from the opposite side of the hedge, was a black Alfa Romeo RM. As she had anticipated, Clara had mounted the verge at the side of the road and run the car sidelong into the hedgerow. It sat, seemingly patiently waiting for its owner to come back and rescue it. Frost decorated the bonnet and a lone icicle hung from the front wheel arch on the passenger's side, making the car look as though it had been alone for weeks instead of hours.

Clara practically skipped to her beloved vehicle, running a light finger along the bonnet and patting the roof affectionately before remembering she was not alone and smiling bashfully at Branson, a light blush colouring her cheeks "Sorry. I'm rather fond of her and sometimes it's hard to contain myself. I know she wouldn't start last night but she's never let me down before you see... It's silly really." She shook her head embarrassedly, putting her hands behind her back as though she were a child who had been chastised and Branson found himself warming to her even more.

"She's a fine machine," he offered, not wanting her to feel as though she was wrong to think of her car as a faithful companion.

Clara glowed "Isn't she though? And ever so zippy. If we can get her started, you can drive her back if you like... You do think we'll get her started again, don't you?" she bit her lip.

Branson smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way "I expect it was just the wet weather that stopped her."

"You mean moisture in the ignition coil?" Clara let out an unexpectedly girlish giggle at Branson's surprised expression "You don't think I could have driven all up and down the Western Front in the pouring rain without gaining some automotive knowledge, do you? The only problem is," she bit her lip and frowned "I haven't the first clue of how to get rid of it."

"Now that part, you can leave to me. May I?" Branson gestured to the vehicle and Clara stepped aside, giving him a gesture that he took to mean 'Go ahead'. She watched as he opened the bonnet and leaned in extraordinarily close to fiddle about a bit before straightening and turning toward her with a broad smile "Would you like to try and start her?"

**X x X x X**

"How _on earth_ did you do that?" Clara practically fizzed with excitement from the passenger seat as Branson navigated the car along the lane. He smiled and reached into his coat pocket, bringing out a small hip flask and handing it to her "Whiskey doesn't freeze as easily as water. A little on the ignition coil and it evaporates, drying it out. I always put some in the car's radiator in winter to stop it from freezing."

Clara sat in silent amazement before finally managing "If only we'd know that in France... it would have changed _everything_."

"I doubt it." Branson said quietly. Clara was suddenly embarrassed, staring at the hip flask in her lap, turning it over and over in her hands "I'm sorry," she said eventually "You hardly know me and all morning I've been going on and on about the war as though it were all some jolly adventure when really it was..." she trailed off, at a loss.

"Hell." Branson supplied - not unkindly or shortly, but a simple statement of fact.

"Hell..." Clara repeated softly.

They fell silent after that. Branson watched Clara out of the corner of his eye as he drove. The hip flask lay between them on the seat now, and her hand had drifted up seemingly unconsciously to play with the silver chain that hung around her neck. On it he could see now, she had looped an ornate silver ring that she rolled absentmindedly between her fingers. She seemed smaller now, more delicate.

"Why did you go to France?" he asked, his sudden question reverberating throughout the car and surprising them both. Clara stirred from her reverie and Branson thought he saw tears in her eyes.

"My brother and my fiancé both went into the army and I felt so... useless. We had a driver, but after he joined up I discovered I rather liked it behind the wheel. When I found out that there were positions driving to and from the front line I knew that I simply had to go."

"What did your fiancé think of that?"

"I'll never know. He was killed at the Somme."

Branson cringed inwardly. Their conversation had flowed so easily, felt so comfortable, that he had almost forgotten that not only were they relative strangers but also that her social standing was considerably higher than his own and she might think him impertinent "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's alright; you couldn't have known. I think he would have rather liked it really. Terribly keen on women's rights, you know. He was absolutely furious when Asquith came up with the Cat and Mouse Act."

"It sounds like he was a good man."

"He was. Father liked him ever such a lot. He still talks about him." Clara smiled sadly.

"Is your father a big advocate of women's rights?" They had arrived back at the estate. Branson slowed the car and turned off in the direction of the garages. He parked the car next to the automobile belonging to the Crawleys and shut off the engine. Neither he or Clara made any sign of moving.

"Yes, he's very keen – or at least, he was. He made ever such a lot of noise in parliament over the vote and he was very proud when I told him I was going to France."

Something suddenly clicked within his mind and Branson suddenly felt rather nervous. The fact that Clara had her own automobile (among other things) had made him suspect that she had not necessarily come from peasant stock, but the last thing he had expected upon awakening that morning was that he would be not only be driving an automobile belonging to, but also talking easily and familiarly with the Right Honourable Clara Payne. She simply wasn't what you would expect of a young lady who would one day inherit the title intended for her late brother. Branson remembered reading the obituary in the paper in 1919. Raymond Payne had been an active member of commitees to abolish the gulf between the classes until the war, when he had joined up immediately. Branson had seen him speak at a socialist rally in 1912. He had been a passionate young man, fervently dedicated to his cause.

"Parliament... is your father Lord Payne?"

"That's right." Clara smiled and Branson thought he detected a hint of mischief in her voice "Does that surprise you?"

"No!" he said quickly, and then "...Well, perhaps a little." He admitted bashfully "It's just that you're not the same as... you're the first guest who's ever driven herself here."

"Lots of women drive themselves nowadays. Everything's changing, can't you feel it?"

Branson shook his head "Not much has changed at Downton since before the war. Everything is almost exactly the same as it always was."

"Almost?"

A sudden knock at the garage door outside made them both jump. They scrambled from the car and Branson was relieved to see Mr Bates stood there, leaning heavily on his stick. Behind him, Edward hovered expectantly. Mr Bates smiled at Clara "Good Morning Miss Payne. Mr Carson saw your car arrive a few moments ago and thought you may want some assistance with your luggage?"

"That would be wonderful. There isn't much to carry - it's all in the boot. Shall I leave the keys with you in case you need to move her?" Clara held the keys out to Branson and gave his hand a gentle squeeze as he took them "Thank you so much for your help this morning, Mr. Branson. I am forever in your debt."

Mr Bates stepped forward "I'll see to it that your bags are delivered to your room, Miss Payne."

"Thank you so much, Mr...?"

"Bates, ma'am."

"Thank you, Mr Bates." Clara smiled warmly at them all before exiting the garage. When the sound of her footsteps had subsided, Mr Bates turned to look at Branson, his mouth twitching slightly.

"Nice chat, Tom?"

"Stop it," Tom said, smiling in spite of himself "I know you're only joking, but stop it." Mr. Bates had become his closest friend since he had arrived back from France, the only other person whom he had confided in about his moments of terror, his nightmares, the savage beast, the iron fist. In turn, Branson was the only person who knew about the blossoming affection between Mr. Bates and Anna.

**X x X x X**

**Again, would love to hear from you! X**

**P.S. That thing about whiskey in car radiators is totally true, I checked it out! Not 100% on the ignition coil thing though. Please don't try it **


	6. Chapter 6

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. Below the surface however, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. How long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.**

**Ofthewood: So glad you're enjoying the story so far. I'm so excited – as I write this, I'm watching the clock because Series 2 begins in TWENTY MINUTES! I imagine you, me and a ton of other fans will be glued to their sets very soon. Happy watching! **

**ScarletAngelww: Thanks again for your review, I always look forward to your feedback! On your advice I went back to Chapter 4 and made an effort to clarify the dialogue between Lord Grantham and his daughters – would love to know what you think. On the subject of Branson's possible cluelessness to Clara's social status – the reasons for this were manifold and will hopefully become clearer with the developing narrative. First of all, I wanted to illustrate how secretive Sybil has been when it comes to her London friends – after all, we still haven't been introduced to her other guests (including the mystery letter writer). I also wanted to tie in with this the idea of how drastically the world beyond Downton has changed in ten years. It would seem that besides 'doing the season', the family and the staff stick very much within the confines and safety of the estate – seemingly because the war shook them all to such a point that they have retreated to the only place they feel safe. Clara's arrival is supposed to bring into sharp relief just how long they have all been hiding away.**

**Chapter Six**

** X**

Clara gave her lipstick a final touch up and ran her tongue over her teeth, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She was due in the Blue Parlour for coffee with Sybil in a short while, and the debutante inside of her was not easily silenced on the subject of travelling clothes at the tea table. The fact that the rest of her belongings had been in her car had excused her from breakfast dress that morning, but when the footmen had delivered her luggage to her room Clara had immediately set about changing into appropriate attire. Now, she sat at the dressing table attempting to smooth down her hair and make herself look as though she hadn't been traversing the Yorkshire countryside.

Since arriving home from the Western Front, Clara had considered her own character as not just irreversibly altered by the things she had seen, but a peculiar and sometimes frustrating mixture of her own desire to move with the times and the behaviours ingrained by the lessons her mother had instilled tirelessly over the years. Clara had listened to her mother's advice without argument, feeling that knowing how to arrange flowers and being forced to waltz with every available man at her coming out ball had been a fair enough exchange for her time at Cambridge.

Still, her university education or the titbits of her mother's advice such as 'Children should compliment a household, not monopolize it' would not prepare her for training with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. Clara would never forget how the other girls had poked fun at her when, upon sitting down for their first meal together, she had asked where the rest of the cutlery was. Clara smiled to herself. She had been so naive, so out of her depth, so anxious to do well. Her training went well enough, but it wasn't until she met Sybil that Clara had felt truly comfortable within the job. Having come from the same background, Sybil had faced similar obstacles in her training and her support had enabled Clara to become confidant in her own abilities. Without her friendship, Clara felt certain that she wouldn't have stayed in France for longer than a month.

Dabbing a little perfume behind her ears and on her wrists, Clara gave a last twirl in the full length mirror before making her way downstairs and to the Blue parlour on the west side of the house. Sybil was already there, perched on the window seat staring out into the gardens. She turned and smiled brightly when Clara walked in "My dear Clara - Anna told me that Branson helped you to find your car. Was there any damage?" She rose from the window and gestured to one of the armchairs by the fire "Please, sit down."

Clara smiled back at her friend "No, no real damage done. I would have been lost without Mr Branson though – he really is a genius with that sort of thing."

Sybil smiled (a little forcibly Clara thought, or did she imagine it?) "Is he?" She held out her cup for the footman to fill. Clara took the opportunity to study the room around her.

The Blue Parlour was a small and cosy room with west facing windows and plush furnishings. Instead of making the room feel cold, the armchairs upholstered in ocean blue velvet and heavy curtains the colour of twilight created the feeling that one was swimming below the surface of the sea, safely ensconced in warm waters.

Clara allowed her cup to be filled, smiling her thanks to the young footman. He was not the same footmen who had served her at breakfast; he was slightly older and his hair was dark. There was something vaguely familiar about him that Clara couldn't place. He nodded courteously to her before returning to stand by the sideboard.

"It's quite alright Thomas, we can manage from here thank you." Sybil smiled her dismissal. After Thomas had retreated, she pulled the letter out from underneath a cushion. Catching Clara's raised eyebrow, she offered by way of explanation "I was reading it again when Thomas came in to tell me that you had made it back."

"I take it that it's good news then?"

Sybil's face broke into the most radiant of smiles "He's coming to the ball tonight!"

"That's wonderful news darling!" Clara reached across and squeezed her friend's hand.

"Do you think Mama and Papa will like him?"

"Is there any reason why they wouldn't? He's a very good man, and he thinks the world of you." Clara sipped her tea and waited for Sybil to voice her concerns.

Sybil sighed and stirred her tea "It's just that... his opinions are so... modern."

"I thought that was why you liked him?"

"It is! I'm just... concerned, I suppose."

"He's not foolish, old thing," Clara said gently "I'm sure he knows very well that Lord and Lady Grantham might find him disagreeable if he attempts to hold court. You must trust that he knows how to behave."

"I suppose you're right..." Sybil stared into the hearth, watching the flames crackles and hiss. Clara looked past her friend and through the large bay window. There were heavy clouds forming in the distance and moving in quickly – snow clouds unless she was very much mistaken. A thought suddenly occurred to her "Did the letter say what time to expect him?"

Sybil consulted the letter once more "He, Rose and Henry will take the eleven o' clock train from Paddington so they should be getting in around two. I'll ask Branson to collect them."

Clara arched an eyebrow "Is that... wise? You know, given Rose's ability to conjure a soap box out of thin air? She won't like being ferried around and it might make your Branson dreadfully uncomfortable."

"He's not _my_ Branson-" Sybil said hotly before catching herself. Seeing her friend's surprised expression she smiled apologetically "Sorry dearest. I didn't mean to snap. I'm sure Rose will behave herself. The other two will make sure of it."

"Still, you'd better warn Branson, don't you think? Goodness knows I love Rose, but to the unsuspecting innocent it can feel a little bit like being hit by a train." Lady Rose Carter had driven ambulances with Clara in France. She was older than Clara and Sybil by three or four years, with long wavy red hair that rippled like flames when she wore it loose. Before the war, she had been involved in the suffragette movement, speaking at rallies and attending demonstrations. She was from one of London's wealthiest families, but attempted to distance herself from any evidence of belonging to the upper classes. These days, she worked as a journalist and shared a flat near Regent's park with a photographer named Alexandra Gibson.

Sybil placed her teacup to one side and rolled her eyes "Believe me, Branson is far from being an innocent."

Clara cocked her head to one side "Why do you say that?"

Sybil sighed and, haltingly, began to explain "I was just becoming interested in women's rights when Branson became our driver. He gave me some pamphlets on the vote and I suppose we became... friends of a sort. When the war started he wouldn't fight."

"He was a conscientious objector?"

"I thought so. He was openly against the war. He was given so many white feathers..." Sybil paused, as though the memory hurt her more than she expected "He never lashed out at people who thought him a coward though. He was always very dignified. But one day he just changed his mind and signed up. Just like that. I couldn't believe it. I tried to talk to him but he wouldn't explain."

Clara remembered Tom's words when she had asked why he had changed his mind about going to France _'It was more a change of heart.' _What could possibly have invoked such an extreme shift in his values?

"Anyway," Sybil was saying "I was angry that he had given up on his beliefs, and after that we became less friendly. I went to France soon after he did."

"Did your paths ever cross at the front?"

Sybil shook her head "No. I never saw him."

"Were you ever...?" Clara trailed off and let her half-question hang in the air, reluctant to finish it in case she chose her words badly and offended her friend, but still wanting to know. Sybil's eyes widened and she shook her head again, more vehemently this time "Of course not! It wouldn't have been appropriate."

"Does that mean you wanted to?"

Sybil hesitated, opening and shutting her mouth several times, as though beginning to answer but thinking better of it. Eventually, she sighed and said "Looking back, I think we were a little fond of each other. Perhaps if things had been different..."

"You mean if he hadn't been in your family's employ? If he had stayed in the army or found another job?"

"Do not judge me, Clara," Sybil's voice hardened "We are not all fortunate enough to come from families who do not mind who we are involved with." Her words were harsh and Clara knew she had probed too deeply, but she could not deny that Sybil's words had stung somewhat. After all, there were a lot of reasons her father did not object to who she associated with, but the main one was that since Raymond and Mother had died he barely knew what day it was anymore "Of course not. I'm sorry, old love." She reached across to grasp Sybil's hand "I didn't mean to sound as though I were judging you. I suppose what I am trying to ask you is whether or not you are _still_ fond of him."

Sybil's expression softened and she squeezed her friend's hand affectionately "Do you know, for a long time, I thought I was. But later on, after I met..." she glanced fondly at the letter she had placed on the end table "I realised I was only sad because I felt as though I had lost the only man who treated me as an intellectual equal. It was what I wanted from a man more than anything else."

Clara nodded sagely. She knew all too well how it felt to lose the only men in the world who were not afraid of her mind. A sudden wave of grief for Charles and Raymond washed over her and she found herself blinking back tears "It's... very easy to believe yourself more in love with someone than you really are when they seem to give you what your heart craves most." She sat back in her chair and for a while the two sat in companionable silence, thinking on these words.

**I'm sorry I was so late with this chapter! Things at work got away from me before I knew it, it was October! Hope you all haven't lost interest **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author: Lavender Pearl  
>Summary: 1923. Five years after the Great War and Downton Abbey appears unchanged. Below the surface however, the mighty ripples of the war to end all wars have been felt throughout many lives. How long can a new world be kept out when some people are so determined to bring it flooding in?<br>Rating: I don't know. I'm not much for gratuitous sex or violence, but I **_**do**_** like a good romance and we **_**are**_** talking about the First World War.**

**Sorry this has been so long in the making everyone, and thank you for all the reviews for the last chapter!**

**Chapter Seven**

** X**

Tom glanced at the clock. Another fifteen minutes or so and he would need to leave for the station to collect the rest of Lady Sybil's guests. After assisting Clara in retrieving her car from the hedgerow, he had pottered about the garage until the cold weather became truly unbearable and he had to withdraw inside, hoping that things were more under control in the servant's quarters than they had been when he left.

He must have looked chilled for Daisy, upon finding him sat at the kitchen table blowing warm air onto his frozen fingers, had silently slipped away and returned with a steaming mug of tea. She placed it in front of him with a smile before hurrying to answer another of Mrs Patmore's frantic calls "Thank you, Daisy!" he called gratefully to her retreating figure.

Daisy had been a different person since William's death. Well, they all had. But Daisy in particular had retreated within herself and become a much more solitary creature. Tom had heard Anna say to Mrs Patmore that there had been few nights that she had not heard Daisy cry herself to sleep. Tom suspected the root of her suffering lay in the unconscious knowledge that William had always loved her and now it was too late for her to love him back. The war had deprived the world of so much potential. Swathes of mothers were now without sons, children without fathers, and young women without dance partners, husbands and brothers.

Not unlike the young lady he had just spent the morning with. Tom cringed inwardly when he thought about his failure to recognise her breeding. Although in fairness, he rationalized, she did not behave like the heiress to a glittering title. She was more... human than that. A great feat he supposed, given the war's ability to strip people of their humanity. Another brief look at the clock told him to finish his tea and depart for the train station.

Settling himself in the driver's seat for the second time that day, Tom gave a sideways look at Clara's Alfa Romeo as he pulled out of the garage. It was certainly a well cared for machine. He thought that Clara was the sort of person who would undertake any maintenance required herself. She would have learnt how with the FANY. Tom allowed himself an ironic smile, remembering the answer he'd gotten when first enquiring what FANY meant "It stands for First Anywhere, chum." his comrade had told him with a chuckle. Tom's smile disappeared quickly enough as without warning, his memory shifted to a mere fifteen minutes later when that same comrade had been shot in the face.

He had been right though. The FANYs always seemed to appear out of nowhere, laden with stretchers and a determined look in their eye, diving straight into the thick of it to recover wounded soldiers and taken them back to the field hospitals. Tom thought of one such time in 1918, when he had been laying in a shell hole in Flanders, a gunshot wound in his side and his trousers caught on barbed wire preventing him from crawling back to his trench. He closed his eyes but a few frustrated and angry tears leaked out, mingling with the mud on his face. In that moment, he felt his time run out.

When he opened his eyes again, they met with the similarly mud-streaked face of a young woman, her eyes bright and intelligent. She ran her sharp gaze up and down his form, appraising his wound and then giving him a brief but reassuring smile. Without a word she set about untangling his trouser leg from the barbed wire and whistled for the stretcher bearers, pressing a clean pad of gauze against the wound in his side until they came. She disappeared without a word after that.

The iron fist hovered menacingly, threatening to clamp down on Tom shoulder as he drove. He was out of the estate now, on the road, and felt himself instinctively checking for cover. His chest constricted and his blood ran cold.

_Stop it. Calm yourself._

He breathed deeply and tried to focus on the road ahead, opening the window as he drove. Sometimes if he tried really hard, he could control it, stop the floodgates from buckling. The freezing winter air gushed through the open window, stung his eyes and whistled painfully in his ears. It hurt, but it seemed to distract him. He felt his shoulders relax and tried to summon up some other thought he could give his attention to.

Three. That's how many times he would see the train station that afternoon. Three lots of passengers. Three journeys - well, six if you counted there _and_ back. Which he did. Tom didn't used to mind so much; he knew the route with his eyes closed and before the war he would have relished the opportunity to allow his mind to diverge off on some other path. Nowadays, though, letting his attention roam freely was dangerous as it seemed a lack of vigilance always led his thoughts back to thing that he least wanted to think about. It had occurred to him early on that he might never again be able to let his mind wander; that he might never again experience the comfort and respite that an idle daydream might once have offered. The war had left a generation of men afraid to traverse their own inner landscapes. Thousands of souls left barren and scarred, many never to be touched again; too damaged by the memories they would forever carry.

"Really boys, you do take up the most _frightful_ amount of space. Can't one of you get out and walk alongside or something?" Tom allowed a small smile to himself as the female member of the party he had retrieved from the station struggled to reach a comfortable sitting position in the back of the Rolls. She wriggled heartily away between the two gentlemen either side of her, one hand holding down her hat and the other bracing itself against one of their shoulders. The gentlemen showed no signs of moving – indeed, they proceeded to tease her as brothers would, grinning at each other over the top of her head.

"Rose darling, if only you hadn't _insisted _on bringing everything you own-"

"-And what seems like some of Alexandra's things as well-"

"-Then I daresay there would be room for all of us and some to spare. I mean, dash it all dear, are you afraid there's going to be a fire in one of your trunks and you'll require a spare?"

"Good Lord, I hadn't thought of that – Rose, if there's a fire in my trunk may I borrow one of your evening gowns?"

Throughout this exchange Rose had continued to writhe and squirm, refusing her travelling companions any sign that she was even paying the slightest bit of attention to their teasing. But when the gentleman on her left asked if he might borrow a dress she let out a peal of laughter and batted at them both affectionately.

From the driving seat Tom listened to their conversation, feeling glad that Lady Sybil had come across friends such as these. Not that he had anything to go on other than this journey, of course, but they seemed spirited enough for her. Lady Sybil had always been older than her years; when they had been closer he had often worried that the joys and frivolities of her youth were passing her by. He was comforted to know that she had gained peers who might lighten her heart just a little.

A cursory glance at each of them had told him that they were not the ragamuffin set that he had heard Lady Grantham was terrified of expecting. One of the gentlemen, he had noticed, had not hopped from the train quite as nimbly as his companions. His limp was noticeable but not severe, and he had a long thin scar running down his neck from beneath his left ear and ending below his collar. This did not affect his joviality however, and he was just as handsome as the other gentleman, who was grey eyed and dark. The lady with them – Rose – was so petite that the two men seemed to dwarf her. Her face was pale with a smattering of freckles and under her hat Tom caught a glimpse of hair the colour of fire.

"I am so glad Clara was able to come," Rose was saying from the back seat "I see her so rarely now."

"I saw Lionel Gatsby at my club last night and he said that old Lord Payne is in a bad way at the moment." reported the grey-eyed gentleman to the other two. The gentleman with the scar nodded soberly "Bad business, all that. I saw Clara told me that sometimes he doesn't speak for days."

"Poor thing; it must be lonely for her," Rose sighed "And she wanted so badly to stay in France after the war."

All three fell silent then, their gaiety seemingly punctured by the sudden remembrance of the not too distant past and the significance it would hold over their lives forever. There was a lot of that about these days, Tom thought as he approached the gates to estate - Conversations coming to a halt mid-sentence and descending into lapses of meaningful silence while each participant privately nursed their own broken heart.

X

**Hope you enjoyed – with a bit of luck it won't be so long between chapters next time!**


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